Free Rose Cottage by Mary Stewart Page B

‘Yes, of course. Their farm’s over Ashhurst way. You’d be at school with her?’
    I spoke absently, watching all the while through the glass of the door to see if I could catch a glimpse of the vicar coming away from his call on Mrs Foster at the post office on the other side of the green. Mrs Barlow’s absence was disappointing. She was a great gossip, and since most people who visited the village found their way at some time to the shop, I had hoped she might have some information for me.
    ‘That it?’ asked Jinnie, putting the last of the packages into my basket. ‘We’ve got some tins of Spam, if you’d like one, and what about flour?’
    ‘Oh, no thanks. I’ve got all I need, and I don’t want a lot to carry. It’s a long way to Rose Cottage. This’ll do me very well. How much is it?’
    She told me and I paid her. As she counted out the change she asked, with the first sign of curiosity, ‘Rose Cottage? Isn’t that the place away down the station road? Where the old lady died and the sister went up north to stay? I heard about that.’
    I hesitated, then put the question I had wanted to ask Mrs Barlow. ‘Did your aunt say if there’d been any strangers seen about there lately, or maybe asking about it?’
    ‘Not that I remember. Here, don’t forget your ration book.’ As she handed it to me she caught sight of the address on the cover. ‘Richmond, Surrey? Oh, you’re not from Todhall, then? And you’re lodging down at Rose Cottage? On your own? Isn’t it lonesome there?’
    ‘Not really.’ There was the vicar now, shutting Mrs Foster’s gate and setting out to cross the green. He appeared to be making for the church.
    ‘Are you just there on holiday, then? Related, maybe? Aunty did tell me—’
    ‘Excuse me. Someone I want to see. I must catch him. Thanks again, Jinnie. Good morning.’ Snatching my basket up I made hastily for the door, tripping over Muffin, who was waiting to be let out again, presumably for further contemplation of the ducks. In the ensuing scuffle as he was caught and held and apologised for, I made my escape from further questions and headed back down the green towards the church.
    When I let myself in through the south door, there was no sign of the vicar. A woman was there, below the pulpit, with a bucket full of flowers and branches beside her, and a couple of big brass vases on the floor waiting to be filled. I recognised the massive vases that stood to either side of the chancel arch. On festival days my grandfather used to bring boughs of blossom or leaves from the Hall grounds. For ordinary Sundays the vases usually had to stand empty.
    The church, the eternal centre of the village, was unchanged, not shrunken like Rose Cottage and the vicarage. The same yesterday, today and for ever. Just as it should be. I supposed – fleetingly, as I slipped into a back pew to say the brief prayer that was one’s civil greeting to the church’s owner – that the timelessness was the quality all churches shared; a matter admittedly, to some extent, of shadows and carvings and high groined ceilings and dim religious light, but also of the years of use, the words, the thoughts, the griefs and joys of countless peoplethrough the years. Here in Todhall there had been some nine centuries of them.
    I got to my feet and approached the flower-arranger. She had not looked round as I entered the church, but now she stood up and greeted me. She was tall, thin rather than slender, with brown hair that showed a hint of grey tucked back uncaringly under a felt hat. She looked to be somewhere in her sixties, and wore an elderly skirt topped by a cardigan over a white shirt blouse. She greeted me with a poise verging on condescension. Her voice was educated.
    ‘Good morning. A lovely day, isn’t it? Are you interested in our church?’
    ‘Good morning. You must be Mrs Winton Smith?’
    ‘Yes?’
    It was a question, and she waited for an answer. I said: ‘I’m Kate Herrick, Mrs